It’s not a question. Not a criticism either; just an observation. “I'm aware.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “Sorry. I know it’s annoying.”
“Didn’t say it was annoyin’.”
I blink. “Most people find it annoying.”
“I’m not most people.”
He falls silent for a moment. Then he says, “You’re quiet.”
“I’ve been talking for ten minutes straight.”
“Not your words,” he replies. “Your energy. It just got quieter.”
I don’t know how to respond to that—to someone who can read me so easily.
My throat tightens for no reason at all.
I shrug. “Maybe I’m just cold.”
He reaches over and turns up the heater. He doesn’t ask if that’s what I want or make a big deal of it. He just does it. My brothers do things like that all the time, adjusting things without asking. It usually makes me feel managed. This feels different. Maybe because he’s not watching for my reaction or waiting for gratitude. He simply saw a problem and fixed it.
I press my palms against my thighs, soaking up the warmth from the vents.
The truck turns off the main road onto a narrower path, where snow piles higher at the edges. The headlights illuminate dark pines, fence posts, and a stretch of open field shimmering with frost.
Then the cabin comes into view, and I sit up straighter, craning my neck. It’s not the tiny log shack I had imagined; it’s a proper cabin, with two stories, a wide porch, and warm light glowing in the windows. Smoke curls from the chimney, and a covered woodpile is neatly stacked to one side. A wheelbarrow leans against the railing as if waiting for morning. Everything about it looks well-maintained, as if the man who lives here genuinely cares.
Tex pulls under a covered carport—a smart move for winter—and shuts off the engine.
He gets out, circles the truck, and opens my door, offering his hand to help me out.
I hesitate, not because I don’t want his help, but because I’m stubborn and used to doing everything myself.
“I can get out of a truck,” I mutter.
“I know,” he replies, but his hand remains extended.
I take it.
The snow crunches beneath my boots, and the air is so clean it almost stings. My breath fogs in front of me as I take in my surroundings.
No streetlights. No neighbors. No traffic.
Just trees, sky, and Tex’s cabin nestled in the wilderness as if it belongs to the mountain.
The silence is profound. It’s not empty, but filled with wind, trees, and distant animal sounds. No human noise, no brothers, no expectations.
I take a breath, and my shoulders drop for the first time in hours.
“Still time to run,” I say, mostly joking but with a hint of seriousness.
He casually slings my heavy duffel over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. “You’d leave tracks.”
“Maybe I’d double back.”
His gaze locks onto mine, steady as a fence post. “I’d still find you.”
A strange flutter forms in my stomach, which I mask with attitude. “Don’t threaten me with your Army stuff.”
